


The Things He Kept…

by pherryt



Series: Mementos [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Dean-Centric, Grieving Dean, M/M, Pining Dean, Season 7 compliant, Temporary Character Death, coda 7.1, magpie!castiel, some strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:34:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who knew an Angel of the Lord was a kleptomaniac?</p>
<p>or </p>
<p>What happens when Dean is left with nothing but Castiels trench coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So right after last nights episode and right before I dropped off to sleep, I found myself wondering what all Castiel could have in his pockets. I, myself, have a trench coat and the pockets are CAVERNOUS! And then I thought, what would Dean make of the things he found there?
> 
> I fell asleep thinking I'd forget by morning (as usual) but actually found myself waking up with more of the story in my head. This lead me to rushing out of bed and feverishly typing away before I forgot all of it. Then I realized I needed to know why Dean was even going through Cas's pockets in the first place.
> 
> and that's how I wound up with a season 7, angst ridden story. It wasn't MEANT to be angsty when I started, but as soon as i questioned why Dean was going through his pockets ( "---looking for loose change---"), there was no going back.
> 
> This is a one shot only. My first, successful "I think this idea in my head would make a nice quick one shot" story. all others have become long fics. Or at least multiple chapter fics. Some are still on going. 
> 
> I know the story arc is old (season 7! I mean, yeah, i get it, we're wrapping up season 11 as we speak!) but well, here it is. PLEASE let me know what you think?

 

Dean was holed up in the garage, away from Bobby, away from Sam. The dirty, waterlogged trench coat stared at him mockingly from the table. He took a pull from his beer. He knew it was stupid, after everything that had happened, but he couldn't bear to give it up. It was the only physical thing he had left to remind him of Castiel, since the hand print on his shoulder had long ago faded away. Or maybe it had been healed away by Castiel himself? He wasn't sure anymore and it was too late to ask. He would never admit it out loud to anyone, but he kinda missed it.

He sighed and took another sip. If he was going to be stupid and drag that stupid trench coat around, he probably should clean it. Finishing off the beer, he stood up, ignoring the pangs of his heart and simply focusing. He picked up the coat and shook it out. He knew Cas kept some things in the coat that shouldn't get washed. Then again, it had already gone for a trip in the lake, how much worse could it get?

Despite that, Dean still dug through the pockets to empty it. The wallet and the phone were there, obvious and expected. The phone was probably a lost cause, but he thought he heard something about rice? What the hell, he'd give it a try. What could it hurt? The wallet he opened. Most of the stuff inside, cards, ID's, the wallet itself, would survive its immersion…the papers – not many – and the cash, not so much. He pulled everything out and laid it out over the table to dry anyway. Not that it really mattered much but…again, what would it hurt?

That’s when he turned to the other pockets. Surprise rose in him as his hands met other objects. Big ones, small ones. First he pulled out a bedraggled, long black feather. Followed by a couple of stones. A zippo – was that _his_? He'd wondered where that lighter had gone – a mismatched collection of buttons and a wad of post it notes – well those were a lost cause, he tossed the post it notes away, not even trying to separate them to dry them out.

In the other pocket he found a small collection of photos, and though those were likely also a lost cause, he knew how important, how precious, the rare photo could be. He spent quite some time trying to gently and carefully separate them to lay them out to dry as well. They'd be more resistant than post it notes, and cash, and could have a chance. He hoped they made it.

 When finished, he went back to the pockets and discovered a silver letter opener – seriously, was that one of Bobbys? He's certain this is the one Sam got him once on a whim a couple of years back – and several spent shotgun rounds. Nothing special there – wait a second, that was his mark on the side of the casings. It was second nature to the Winchester boys to mark any specially prepared round so they'd use the right ones on the right hunt. This had been one of his special cocktails. Salt, silver shavings, oak and other things that could be ground up and used against the supernatural.

Pretty soon, the pockets were all emptied and the table was littered with stuff. Some of it had Dean  scratching his head. He snorted at the memories the FBI badge evoked, then turned to the rest. The feather and the stones, okay, he got those. They looked pretty – or the feather would if it wasn't so wet. Being out in the air, though, had almost dried it already. He ran a finger down the softness of it and felt a small tingle. He drew back. That was weird. But yeah, those things he got. They were the kind of things he could see Castiel, or anyone really, picking up on a whim. He'd done so more than once, even if he eventually got rid of them.

The button collection though, that got him. Maybe it was Jimmy's? Certainly, it wasn't as if Castiel had needed the buttons, and they didn't match a single thing he wore. Even if they had, he'd have just mojo'd his outfit back together like he'd done on other occasions.   Taking another look at the buttons, he thought he recognized some of them.  Some of them were part of outfits Sam and he had tossed away for being too far gone, he realized.

 His breath hitched and he leaned his body against the table to steady himself. At the thought of Cas's mojo, he briefly felt a pang at the thought that he'd just tossed several things into the trash that Castiel could probably _use_ that mojo on if he felt the need to keep them, but then remembered that this time he wouldn't be coming back. There would be no more mojo'ing.  

 His chest tightened and his eyes stung. He took a deep breath and walked away, needing to get some space for a few moments. He placed both hands on the standing tool chest and leaned over, head bowed. _Jesus Christ._ Castiel wasn't coming back from this. Whatever, whoever – though they all knew it had to have been God – had brought him back before hadn't stepped up to the plate this time. Dean knew, deep down, that God was probably pissed, if he was even still paying attention to shit right now. He couldn't have approved of what, what _God_ stiel had done, whatever the intentions. Hell, if Dean had Castiel in front of him right now, _he'd_ be pissed, and righteously so.

But that didn't stop him from missing Castiel more than he thought he would. That didn't stop this from hurting so god damn much. He pushed away from the tool box and headed over to the mini fridge and pulled out another beer, trying to get away from his thoughts. He turned and was met with the evidence of how he'd spent his last hour. The trench coat lay out on the table, all its contents spread out around it. It was amazing how much had survived the dunking in the lake, hadn't floated out of the pockets and away. Maybe some of it had. Maybe there were things missing from the collection the way Castiel was missing from…

Once again, Dean studied the objects in front of him. Things picked up on a whim. Nonsensical items that had no use. Things he, Sammy and Bobby had touched. There was so much of it. Most of it was stupid stuff, the type of thing you'd never notice had gone missing.  Like bottle caps from some of Dean's favorite beers. Some were a little more than that, but not any more important, just annoying. Why did Cas pick these things up? Dean tried to remember if he'd seen Castiel playing with the letter opener ever. Maybe he'd been fidgeting with it and accidentally pocketed it when his attention was called to other things?

Dean had long ago seen a lack of personal space and understanding of the notion of privacy from the angel. A boundless curiosity and sense of wonder at the things on Earth – both the natural creations by his father's hand, and the endless variety of things that humans could come up with – had often led to Castiel randomly picking things up and examining them, rather like a child. Dean could totally see Cas forgetting that he had something in his hand if he was interrupted for something important, the item just falling into one of his large pockets.

Dean shook his head. Who knew an Angel of the Lord was a kleptomaniac? He huffed a silent laugh and felt tears sting his eyes again. God, he was getting sentimental in his old age.  Well, it was old for a hunter, at any rate. Hunters like Bobby were rare. He looked at the items before him with new eyes.

Maybe that was the answer? How to make sense of the collection before him. What would an angel need with, with _any_ of it? Dean sat heavily in the chair he'd been using earlier, setting the beer bottle on the ground between his feet as he covered his face with both of his hands. _Shit._ It _was_ the answer. It had to be. Little bits of life, little mementos of Team Free Will that would never be missed.  Something small Castiel could keep with him even when they weren't around any longer. Dean had a box like that in the trunk of the Impala. He got it. He understood. He'd deny it if his brother ever brought it up, but he got it.

Cas had always been more than just an angel to them. To Dean. And if _he_ was currently lamenting the fact that the angel was gone, leaving only this trench coat and this odd assortment of items as proof that he'd been here, what had Cas felt like?

More than human, yet too human for heaven. Connecting with humans, rebelling for them, forming a brotherhood with them that was supposed to be reserved for his own kind and then having to face the idea that one day they'd be gone.  That the humans he chose over his own brothers and sisters had a much shorter lifespan compared to him, even before you took in what Dean and Sam and Bobby _did_. The life expectancy of a hunter - being brought back to life notwithstanding, those were hardly normal circumstances – was rather lower than that of a normal human.

And one day, they'd just be gone, and Castiel would have been alone. At the mercy of his brothers and sisters once again.

Despite his best efforts, a sob broke through and he shuddered a breath, trying to rein it in. _God_ , he prayed, _don't let Sammy or Bobby come out here and see me like this._ Another sob broke and before he knew it, he had his head resting on his knees, hands covering his head as his body shook and tears poured down his face.

_God damn it Castiel, you fucking idiot! Why'd you have to do something so stupid? Why couldn't you have listened to us, to **me**? How could you leave me, again? Before I could…_ the sudden realization, the reason why this hurt so damn much, stopped his thoughts dead cold. His bottom lip quivered, the sobs getting more painful. He bit his teeth down on his lower lip, pressing the top lip down in a tight line against his teeth and lower lip in an attempt to still them and quiet himself. The last thing he wanted was his brother or Bobby to hear him and come looking to make sure he was all right.

Because he wasn't all right.  His chest still heaved as he curled in on himself further. Why did he have to realize _now,_ when Cas was good and gone, that he'd _loved_ him? That this was why it hurt so damn much? And he never got the chance to tell him. Or well, show him how much he meant to Dean anyway. Angels probably didn't fall in love, he figured. No matter that this one had chosen to fall for humanity.

No, Dean may never have _told_ Castiel in so many words that he loved him, as that would have made him too vulnerable. Which was too much like how he was feeling right now. But he could have…he would have…his fingers tightened painfully in his hair. It didn't matter anymore. It was too late for all that, for could haves, would haves.

All he had left was a trench coat. And all of Cas's odd little mementos. Sniffling, his breathing slowly returning to normal, he wiped at his nose with his sleeve and stood up, making his way back to the table. His eyes were drawn to the photographs which were drying better than he'd hoped. He reached out and actually looked at them, through them this time. A hand reached up to cover his mouth as another sob attempted to force its way out.

He'd expected pictures of Jimmy's family. After all, it was his meat suit Castiel had been wearing, even if it was with his permission. But these were anything but. Pictures of Dean and Sam, of Dean and Jo, Ellen and Bobby, so many pictures of his little family, both here and gone. And then a couple that even had Castiel himself in it, and whoever took them had managed, a couple of times, to catch Castiel when he looked at Dean when Dean wasn't even aware. The look on his face, the adoration and awe made Dean shake, because he was certain he wasn't worth that. Had never been. Yet the angel had apparently thought so.

God, what had he ever done to deserve that? And how long had everyone else known what Dean was only now coming to realize?

How long had Dean loved Cas? How long had Castiel loved Dean? And it was all gone, _he_ was all gone.  And Dean didn't know what to do, how to deal with this, with the loss. The loss of what was and what never had a chance to be. Of Castiel, who'd grown closer and more important to him than Dean ever really let anyone else, even Lisa.

He couldn't talk to Sam about it. Sam's noggin wasn't even on straight, because of Cas, and that should just piss him right off, but he couldn't do it. What was the point? He wiped at his eyes again, tears  now rolling silently. And Bobby, god that would just be awkward to discuss with his pseudo father figure. Would have been worse if it'd been John. He's not sure what his father would have thought about the idea that his oldest not only loved a man, but a non human _creature_ , never mind that he was an angel.

But again, that didn't matter. Nothing did. He'd just have to soldier on, be there for Sammy and Bobby, the only family he had left. He couldn't leave them empty, couldn't leave them feeling the way he did. He could do this.

He picked up the trench coat, leaving all the other items scattered on the table, some of them still drying, and brought the coat up to the house to clean. This he'd keep. _His_ memento. He'd pack up Castiel's mementos and keep them safe. He could do that much in his memory. But the coat he'd keep with him. For him. And damn what anybody said about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ADDENDUM - Bobby finds it all
> 
> (I forgot to put ONE thing in his pockets that I really really wanted and when I tried to figure out how to add it back into the already written section, i got another two pages. BUT THAT IS IT! I'm not writing anything else for this, I swear!!!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I said this was a one shot and THEN added another chapter. I promise that this is it. I fell asleep last night and just as I was dropping off, i remembered that one thing that i really wanted in the story.
> 
> i debated adding this...i thought maybe i could just edit the story, but then THIS came out instead.
> 
> So i guess my one shot is now a two shot? I'm still counting this as a win since its' NOT a long fic!

Dean was searching Bobby's house for a box. Not too big, not too small, he needed something just right. God, he felt a little like Goldilocks right now. Good thing neither Bobby or Sam were mind readers.  He could hear the thumping of the dryer from the basement, its vibrations running up the old walls of the house.  It should be almost done by now, and why the _hell_ couldn't he find a fucking box? Bobby had like, everything in this house, so was it too much to ask for a box to put all Cas's stuff in?

"Dean! You idjit! Get yer ass out here, now!" Dean froze. The yelling was faint, just strong enough to be heard, and came from outside. From…the garage. He groaned. He did _not_ want to have this conversation. He hesitated to move. He also didn't want Bobby throwing any of that shit away. _Shit._

Running outside, Dean skidded to a halt behind where Bobby was standing over the table in the garage, hands deep in his pockets and staring down.

"What exactly, pray tell, is all _this_?" came the gruff voice of his Uncle. The wrong gruff, the wrong voice, not the one that should be scolding him for going through his pockets, for invading his privacy. Dean cleared his throat.

"Um…that’s…all," He had to stop and clear his throat again as he slowly came to stand next to Bobby instead of behind him. "That's all Cas's stuff. I'm trying to, uh, dry it out. Was just lookin' for a box to put it all in. Y'know." He tried to keep his voice nonchalant as he gave a little shrug. But with the look Bobby was shooting him without even turning his head, he could tell he'd failed.

"Huh."

"Yup."

"Did you find one?"

"No."

"Top shelf in the back, I have some empty Whitman Sampler boxes. Might have one the right size." He pointed to the back of the garage where Dean hadn’t even thought of looking.

"Huh. Okay. Um…thanks." Hesitantly – god dammit, hesitant was _not_ Dean Winchesters middle name, for fuck's sake –Dean moved past Bobby, past the table, trying not to glance down as he followed Bobby's finger towards the back.  As he rummaged through the boxes, there being several empty ones, looking for the right size, he heard Bobby walking around the table.

"Wait, is that the letter opener Sam gave me?"

"I think so."  Dean didn't turn around but his shoulders tensed up.

"Was wonderin' where that went." Bobby grunted. And that was that. Deans shoulders relaxed again just as he found what he thought would be the perfect size. He claimed it and returned to the table. Opening the lid and placing both pieces of the box down, he started grabbing anything that didn't still need to dry. The buttons went first, and then the bottle caps. The Zippo he hesitated over – it was his after all – but then he dropped it in the box as well. Bobby himself reached over to grab the letter opener and carefully placed it into the box. Not a word.

Dean wanted to save the feather for last, didn't want it to get crushed by anything in the box, it was too beautiful for that. He carefully picked up the photos and they seemed to have dried, so he placed them inside with the wallet and placed the feather on top. Once again, the feather sent a tingling sensation down his fingers but he shook it off.

For a second he thought he was done, but then he looked up over at Bobby to realized there'd been one thing left.

The whoopee cushion. That stupid gag thing he'd bought when they'd met that poor kid Jesse a couple years back, when Cas had originally fallen during their fight with Lucifer and Michael. The Royal showdown. He remembered the moment very well. Castiel had looked so confused and uncomfortable and mildly embarrassed when he sat on it and then realized what had happened. He'd gotten a kick out of using a cheap gag on an Angel of the Lord, but Sam hadn't approved. He thought it had disappeared because Sam had thrown it away.

Now Bobby was holding it in his hands, turning it over with a look of confusion on his face.

"Now, I'm not sayin' I get most of this stuff - some of it looks like real _junk_ to me - but what would an angel want with a whoopee cushion?"

Dean reached forward and snatched the whoopee cushion from his Uncles surprised hands and growled.

"How the hell should I know why he kept _any_ of this stuff!" Dean tucked it down the side of the box, under the pictures and the feather and then closed the lid shut tightly. He picked up the box and held it tightly against his chest, the look on his face challenging as he glared at Bobby.

"It's okay Dean." A hand reached up to grasp his shoulder reassuringly. The wrong hand. The wrong person. On _his_ shoulder.  His throat tightened and his eyes burned. "Dean, I know yer hurtin'. Too much has happened, most of it bad, an' it wouldn't take a genius to see that yer hurtin'. It's nothin' shameful, boy. And Sam and I, we're here for you, when yer ready. You remember that, okay?"

Unable to speak, sure that if he opened his mouth he'd become a sobbing mess – _again_ – he simply nodded. Overwhelmed by the support he got from his uncle. The kind of support that he never got from John. Not that he hated the man, though he sure didn't always agree with him. But he didn't think John had ever looked up from hunting and revenge long enough to see what he was doing.

"All right then. I'm going inside to check on yer brother. Ya know where to find me." Dean nodded again and Bobbys' hand slipped off his shoulder as he walked away, back towards the house. Towards the trench coat. 

Cradling the box against his chest, more gentle now, Dean shut his eyes tight to fight back the tears. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. He could do this. He could.


End file.
